by Janet Dailey
“Let’s hop out and check the planter,” Mitch said.
She followed Mitch’s lead. As he demonstrated ways to ensure the planter was level, she tore her eyes from his jeans, which clung in an appealing way to his attractive backside and, instead, listened carefully.
“You need to make sure seeds are coming out of all twelve exit points at the right angle,” he said. “If you don’t have uniform seed depth, emergence and height will be affected, which means lower yields.” He shook his head. “And this year, Emmy’s betting her bottom dollar on what comes out of this ground.”
After they returned to the cab, Mitch set up a few auto features in order for the tractor to take over most of the work. Then Kristen sucked in a deep breath, focused on the empty field in front of her, and reminded herself of how important it was to succeed.
“Too much at once?”
She glanced at Mitch, whose expression was patient and kind, and shook her head. “No. I just want to get this right for Emmy.”
“Well”—Mitch stretched across her toward the controls—“in that case, you forgot the most important part.”
He pressed a button, and static emerged from the cab’s speakers. A few movements of Mitch’s long fingers over the controls and a steady beat filled the cab.
“Country?” She laughed. “Is that a prerequisite for planting a field?”
“Nope.” He stretched an arm along her seat’s headrest, his boyish grin stirring warmth low in her belly. “I’m all for vibrant, hard-hitting rock at the end of the ride. But to start off right, you gotta inject a bit of soulful guitar into the air.” He tapped his chest with a fist. “It feeds the soul and the seed.”
It wasn’t hard to imagine Mitch as a charismatic young man, energetic and adventurous, working and exploring the farm. Or even driving a date to an empty field lit up with stars, turning on the music, and flashing that charming smile.
“Did you ever sneak out here and rock out when you were young?” she teased.
His grin slipped, and his voice faded to a low murmur as he replied, “Once upon a time. When I was able to.”
She watched him closely. His previous lighthearted tone had disappeared, and his expression was closed. It was the same look he’d had when he’d confronted her about agreeing with Emmy and taking the job.
This farm may be precious to Emmy, but it’s been nothing but mud and blood for me.
A cold shiver crept over her damp skin. It had been obvious since he’d arrived that he was still struggling with the loss of his sister. Her lips twisted. She was acquainted well enough with grief to pick up on that. But other than his brief comment about Carrie’s addiction the other day, he’d given no details about his family history or his childhood here. What had happened to make him hate the farm so?
She longed to lean against him, settle her cheek on his chest, and ask him to unload his burden. Share his secrets.
But . . . that would also mean sharing her own.
Seeking to shift the mood, she cleared her throat and tapped the steering wheel with her fingertips. “Was this one of the fields you, uh . . . streaked across as a toddler?”
A burst of laughter left his lips, and his lean cheeks flushed. “Really? After all the hard work I’ve put in showing you how to run this thing, that’s the thanks I get?” He cocked an eyebrow at her and looked at the top of her head. “Careful. You might offend me to the point that I reclaim my hat.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’d go along with that.” She tapped the hat down firmly on her head. “I’ve grown kinda attached to it.”
His smile widened, and she returned it, holding his gaze for a few moments before facing the field and easing the tractor forward.
Over the next few hours of planting, the wind picked up, sweeping over the red soil in waves, stirring up clouds of dust, which billowed out behind them and sparkled in the bright sun. Wispy clouds drifted high above them in a wide blue sky. Green trees in the distance bent and swayed almost in time to the soothing music, and the rhythmic bounces of the tractor had her leaning back against the welcoming strength of Mitch’s outstretched arm on more than one occasion.
It was almost as if the land itself was in tune with them, lifting and lowering with their breaths, lulling them into a tranquil silence of contemplation.
Once upon a time . . .
Kristen smiled as she recalled Mitch’s words, drinking in the beauty surrounding her and breathing in the slight aroma of honeysuckle and freshly turned earth trickling through the air vents into the cab. At the moment, Hart’s Hollow did feel magical. As though, at one time, it might have been sturdy and spacious enough to hold any dream that could be imagined, and to offer the promise of it coming true. Or at least to make it seem within reach.
She swiveled her seat around to check the planter through the window and watched with drowsy eyes as it moved along behind them. Something tickled her neck, and she could almost swear she felt Mitch’s big hand glide lightly over her hair, his long fingers brushing through the strands. But when she turned around and smiled at him, he just nodded, complimented her, then resumed staring somberly at the land ahead.
* * *
Two weeks of checking fields, loading planters, and driving tractors across hundreds of acres for fourteen-hour stretches under an increasingly scorching sun and in stifling air could wilt the best of men. But Kristen wasn’t a man.
Mitch eased back in his chair at the kitchen table, looked across at her and smiled. The bright sparkle in her green eyes, her cute freckled cheeks and her excited smile awakened every inch of his body. No. She was a strong, tenacious woman who’d thrived taking on the daily battles of grit and grime. And now she was fresh from the shower, scrubbed clean, damp hair curling sexily around that luscious mouth and smelling sweet, and it was damn near all he could do not to ease around the table and beg for a little of her attention.
“And this one.” Kristen pointed a slim finger at one of the photos Emmy had scattered over the table, between emptied supper plates. “Is that Joe?”
Emmy, seated beside Kristen, shifted Sadie in her lap and leaned closer. “Yep. That’s my Joe, all right. He’s on the same tractor Dylan drove last week.” She picked the photo up and held it out across the table. “See, Mitch? It was bright and shiny at one time.”
He took the picture and studied it. The focus was off and the edges were worn, but the blue frame of the tractor and Joe’s young, smiling face were clear. “How old was Joe in this one?”
“Hmm . . .” Emmy’s brow wrinkled. “Around his midthirties, I think.” She toyed with her napkin, twisting it between her fingers. “Was during the eighties when we got that tractor brand new. Joe was proud. He loved that tractor.”
Dylan leaned over in his seat, bumping Mitch’s arm, and looked at the photo, too. “He looks like you, Uncle Mitch.”
“Yeah.” Mitch examined the blue eyes and the wide smile staring back at him, the sincerity in Joe’s expression a far cry from the hateful sneer and bleary gaze his own father had sported. “Guess I do favor him some.”
“Some?” Emmy smiled. “You’re the spitting image. Just as handsome and just as strong.” She reached across the table, her smile slipping, and squeezed his forearm. “And just as giving. Thank you for all you’ve done these past days, Mitch. We never would’ve gotten all that seed in the ground without you.”
He dropped the photo back on the table, patted her hand, then gently tugged his arm free. “It was the least I could do.” He spread his hands toward the dinner dishes, which still housed leftovers of grilled pork chops, fried okra, and sliced tomatoes. “Supper was delicious, as usual. If I’m going to eat your food and sleep under your roof, I ought to be putting myself to work.”
The lift of her happy expression fell. “You’re entitled to those things. This is your home, too, Mitch.”
Ah, hell. If he could physically manage it, he’d kick himself in the butt for his thoughtless words. But . . . he couldn’t force his tongue
to move in agreement. Hart’s Hollow had never really been a home for him. It’d been a stark, barren place, with fear and pain saturating every square inch of mud. No matter how much he hated hurting Emmy’s feelings, he couldn’t find a way around that sad fact.
Lately, he’d disappointed her on a routine basis. Every day last week, after he’d finished in the fields, Emmy had met him at the front door, hooked her arm through his, and ushered him inside to reminisce over piles of old pictures stored in shoeboxes under her bed. He’d hoped she would spend the time he freed up for her resting or, at most, selling strawberries at a leisurely pace. But there had been no strawberry customers, and she’d kept busy working in her garden, cleaning house, and cooking two, if not three, big meals every day.
And every day, her eager greeting had dimmed a bit more at his obvious lack of enthusiasm for painful memories he’d rather ignore.
Mitch waved a hand toward the opposite side of the table. “Wasn’t just me doing all the work. Kristen worked as hard, if not harder, than I did.” He met Kristen’s eyes and savored the pink rising in her cheeks and her shy smile before gripping Dylan’s shoulder. “And Dylan. He knocked out two fields last week. Showed me up more than once with the way he wielded that tractor around with dead-on precision.”
That had been more of a surprise than Mitch wanted to admit. Not that he didn’t think Dylan capable of hard work and attention to fine detail, but he hadn’t expected the unsolicited sweaty high fives at the end of the workday. Or anticipated the steady growth of pride and self-assurance in Dylan’s stride each evening, as they’d trekked from the fields to the house with the sun setting at their backs.
No. That had been more than a pleasant surprise.
“Wish spring break wasn’t over.” Dylan slumped back in his chair and thumped his half-empty glass of tea. “I could’ve stayed home this week and done the big fields by the road with you instead of going to school.”
Emmy’s smile resurfaced. “I’m proud of you, Dylan. You’ve done a great job. You like working the farm, huh?”
Dropping his head to the side, Dylan shrugged. “It’s all right.”
“Better than a cell phone?” Mitch asked.
Dylan sprang upright again and shook his head. “No way. Can I have it back?”
“Well, let’s see.” Mitch rubbed his chin. “What do you think, Kristen?”
She looked up, holding another photograph, as Dylan glanced her way and stiffened. “I’d say . . .” That gorgeous grin of hers emerged, dimples and all. “I’d say he’s earned it.”
Dylan spun back to face him, thrust his hand out and smiled.
Hemming and hawing, Mitch crossed his arms behind his head. “Gimme a minute, all right? I might grab it for you after my stomach settles. After all that planting, I’ll need the extra rest to regain my strength.”
“Aw, man.” Dylan slumped back in his chair, but the smile stayed. “Whatever. When do you think we’ll see the crops come up?”
“Kristen’s corn should be showing right about now,” Mitch said, glancing her way.
“This soon?” Kristen leaned forward, rubbing the pads of her fingers together. “Could we take a look?”
He dragged his eyes away from the sexy tilt of her pink lips and nodded. “Tomorrow good enough? It’s too late to head out there tonight.”
And strolling around a starlit field with Kristen would only conjure up a million other indecent ways he’d rather spend the next couple of hours with her. Those were thoughts a gentleman had no business pondering.
“Will you wait till we get out of school tomorrow?” Dylan asked. “I want to go, too.”
“Me too.” Sadie scooted forward on Emmy’s lap and bounced excitedly. “Can I go with them, Nana?”
“Oh, heavens,” Emmy groaned, stilling Sadie’s movements. “Course you can, angel. We’ll all go. But you got to jump back in your chair now. My knee’s had about all it can take.”
Smiling, Sadie slid off of Emmy’s lap and walked toward the kitchen. “Can I help you put up the dishes?”
“Sure.” Emmy braced her palms on the table and winced as she struggled to rise.
“Oh, let me, Emmy.” Kristen stood, gathered up several dirty dishes, then placed them in the sink. The window above it was open, and the steady chirps of crickets drifted in on the cool breeze, along with the soft rumble of thunder in the distance. “Where’s the dishwashing liquid?”
Emmy gave a grateful smile and pointed at a cabinet. “Bottom shelf.”
Mitch eyed the white lines by Kristen’s pinched mouth, then nudged Dylan. “Help Kristen out with the dishes, please.”
He nodded, collected the rest of the plates and joined Kristen and Sadie at the sink. Mitch watched them for a few minutes, noting how Dylan’s smile lingered as he waited for Kristen to wash the first dish and hand it to him. When she did, her hands carefully dodging Dylan’s, he glanced up at her and blushed.
“Thank you, Ms. Kristen,” he whispered. “You know, for the phone.”
Her blond curls slid across her slim back as she turned and whispered back, “You’re welcome.”
Mitch smiled, glancing at Sadie, who hovered by the fridge, staring at Kristen. Her curious gaze clung to every movement of Kristen’s hands; skimmed her tall, graceful frame; then drifted up to study her face. Sadie stepped toward her once, then danced in a circle and returned to lean against the fridge.
Mitch’s mouth tightened, and a heavy feeling settled in his gut. Sadie was desperate for attention, love, and support. Not just the spring and summer kind, but a permanent, reliable presence that she wouldn’t hesitate to embrace. To trust. Something she and Dylan had never experienced and had no hope of securing on this farm.
“Here.” Emmy pushed a stack of pictures across the table. “Take a look at those. You’ve never seen this batch.”
Reluctantly, Mitch glanced at the glossy photos, then sifted through them. There were several more of Joe, a few of Emmy, and one of him and Carrie. They were young—he couldn’t have been more than nine at the time—and he was leaning against one of the oak trees in the front yard, while Carrie hung upside down from a low branch above, her long hair brushing his shoulders.
He touched his thumb to Carrie’s smile, a pricking sensation hitting the back of his eyes. Lord, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen her smile like that, but he couldn’t remember the particular day captured in the picture. He obviously hadn’t shared that moment of joy, because his own expression in the photo was stiff—not angry, just . . . resigned.
“And here’s one of me and Cindy Sue.” Emmy shoved another colorful picture in his hand. “Oh, she’d be so proud of what a wonderful man you’ve become. I’m in one of my favorite dresses—wore it all the time when I was young and slim like Kristen. Cindy Sue helped me make it, you know. She was so good with her hands.” She tapped the table and swiveled in Kristen’s direction. “We’ll have to swing by her shop soon, Kristen. I want to introduce you.”
Mitch’s fingers tightened around the picture.
Kristen glanced over her shoulder, head tilted. “Introduce me to who?”
“Cindy Sue.” Emmy smoothed her napkin.
Kristen frowned. “But I thought . . .” Her voice trailed away, and she looked at Mitch, the realization in her eyes adding to the heavy pull of pain within him.
“Emmy.” Mitch returned the photograph to the stack and watched the slow, repetitive movement of Emmy’s hand. “Cindy Sue’s shop isn’t open anymore.”
The movement stopped; then she patted the napkin. “Only on the weekend.”
“No, Emmy.” When he spoke again, Mitch softened his tone, his chest tightening at the confusion clouding her eyes. “It’s not open at all. Hasn’t been for years.”
Emmy blinked. “No. No, it’s not open.”
She said the words, but a thread of uncertainty still lingered in her voice.
Mitch moved to stand. “Emmy—”
“No, don’
t get up.” She pushed off the table and stood, leaning heavily on her chair and shaking her head. “Sounds like a bit of rain’s heading this way. That’s just what those seeds need, and it makes for good sleep. Seems I’m wore out tonight, and it’s ’bout time I get these tired bones in bed, in case we have some strawberry customers tomorrow.”
He stood anyway, then hesitated as Emmy waved Sadie over.
“Come on, Sadie girl. You need a good night’s sleep to get up for school in the morning. We’ll wash up, and I’ll read to you till you drift off.”
Smiling, Sadie darted over and hugged Emmy’s waist.
Mitch moved toward them. “Emmy, I think we need to talk.”
“Don’t worry.” She reached out and patted his cheek, her gaze tired but admiring as it drifted over his face. “My sweet Mitch is home. My strong, beautiful boy. I’m gonna sleep good tonight.”
He stood still, arms hanging at his sides, as she and Sadie walked out of the kitchen and around the corner, out of sight.
Kristen’s soft voice sounded at his back. “Dylan, why don’t you head to bed, too? I can handle the rest of this.”
Dylan’s light tread moved across the creaky hardwood floor; then he hovered in the hall. “Can we still go with you to check Ms. Kristen’s corn tomorrow?”
Forcing a smile, Mitch nodded. “Yeah. We’ll wait till you and Sadie get home from school.”
Dylan smiled, then left. The breeze from the window pushed at Mitch’s back, and the sweet scent of Kristen’s shampoo enveloped him as she drew near.
“You need some rest, too, Mitch. I can handle this.”
He looked down at his side, and finding the sight of her soft, warm hand too inviting to resist, he slipped his fingers between hers and squeezed. “Thank you.”
She squeezed back once before sliding her hand free and stepping back. “You’re welcome.”
Mitch watched her return to the sink, dip her hands into the sudsy water, then scrub another dish. A drizzle began outside, small droplets of water pinging against the raised windowpane, and the sharp scent of rain filled the room.
